The Odd Couple
by nascently
Summary: An angel and a demon lose their powers, and must join forces to survive the cruel world of mortal existence i.e. living in Manhattan. How far can this odd couple take it? Starring Castiel, Crowley, Death, Balthazar. And Severus Snape. Post-Godstiel.


An angel and a demon lose their powers, and must join forces to survive the cruel world of mortal existence i.e. living in Manhattan without rent control. How far can this odd couple take it? Starring Castiel and Crowley. Also featuring Death, Balthazar, and Severus Snape, because in the world of SPN, anything can happen. Post-Godstiel.

A/N: I was telling a friend the other day how if I were a TV writer, I'd write an SPN spinoff comedy staring Castiel and Crowley, in the tone of Changing Channels. So basically this entry is along the lines of what I'd do. :)

* * *

><p>Day 1<p>

"Honestly!" Crowley said, glancing around him after he walked through the front door. "Is this the best you could do?" His eyes narrowed in disdain as he took in the gritty, peeling walls, the dusty windows, the scratched floor.

Next to him, Castiel shrugged, said "I was told this was a 'fashionable' neighborhood," adding air quotes around "fashionable."

"Bloody hell," Crowley muttered, dropping his bags onto the floor. "I'm going to kill Death for this."

* * *

><p>When Real God decides to smite you, He doesn't mess around. And the thing that Real God has as opposed to, say, fake God, is finesse: He tends to dole out punishments tailored to the specific victim. What might be nothing but a small annoyance to one person, could be torture to another. For instance, one might think that having to live in a rundown slum of an apartment was not a bad deal in comparison to, say, having all one's limbs removed. But for Crowley, former King of Hell, it was a nightmare. In a way, he could tolerate losing his powers, if only Real God would let him live somewhere <em>clean<em>. But that's not how Real God rolled.

The aforementioned fake God, once known as and now again known as Castiel, received a more subtle punishment. It wasn't specific torture for him to either live in a dump or live with a former demon; rather, his punishment was to never see a certain human ever again. Despite having been a deity for a short period of time, Castiel, ex-angel and ex-fake God, could still become a wibble kitten about anything relating to a certain Dean Winchester, and Real God knew it well.

It had been Death's idea for Castiel and Crowley to shack up, since he pointed out that as Castiel knew a bit about mortal living, and Crowley knew a bit about home decor, they could help each other out. At first, Crowley thought this was a reasonable idea, until he saw the place that Castiel chose for them.

Little did Crowley know it had been Real God secretly making Castiel sign the unbreakable ninety-year lease agreement.

* * *

><p>Day 2<p>

In the beginning, there was soap, lots of it, and hot water, lots of it. Add a bucket, some sponges, and some rags, and you got a former demon and an ex-angel on their hands and knees. Cleaning the floor, that is.

"Bloody _hell_," Crowley grit his teeth as he squeezed a load of dirty water from his sponge into the bucket. "Could you have at least asked if the place was clean?"

"The rent was low," Castiel replied, dipping his own sponge into the bucket. "I'm told that apartments in this area tend to be expensive."

"Couldn't you have chosen a nicer one in another neighborhood?"

"You wouldn't have wanted to live in The Bronx, would you?"

No answer.

"And as neither of us has employment yet, we must be frugal."

"_Yet_?" this was more than Crowley could tolerate. "I don't know about you, but I'm certainly not going to get a...get a _job_," he said, wincing at the word.

"What do you plan to do to pay the rent?"

"Steal. Sell narcotics. Sell women. I _was_ the King of Hell, you know."

Castiel frowned down at his sponge. "I'm not exactly sure what kind of employment has 'ex-angel' in the job description."

"You could always become a televangelist. Especially with the whole 'ex-God' record in your vitae."

"Neither of those job descriptions are appropriate for that line of work. I believe your employment background may be more fitting."

"Wait, was that a joke, Castiel? Who knew you had a sense of humor?"

"Dean used to say that the reason why he told jokes was because his life was so bad that he had to either laugh or cry." Castiel gazed sadly into the bucket, sighed.

"Oh, come off it. There are worse things than having me for a roommate. Having you for a roommate, for instance."

As the layers of dirt were cleaned off, Crowley was pleasantly surprised to find a splendid hardwood floor beneath the grime, and he began to grow hopeful of other treasures hidden in this derelict dump. But when he spoke to Castiel about maple parquet, and Castiel shook his head and said he wasn't hungry for breakfast, thanks, Crowley sighed, realizing that for all Castiel cared, the floor could have been orange linoleum. No wonder it didn't matter to him that the place was a sty.

* * *

><p>Day 3<p>

The good thing about Castiel's indifference to interior design was that he let Crowley have free reign over choices of decor, including paint color.

"Where are we going?" Castiel asked as Crowley dragged him out the door.

"To get some house paint," Crowley replied, "and I need your assistance in carrying the supplies."

The proprietor of the paint store was a displaced redneck whose two favorite words were "Yep" and "Nope," when he wasn't saying things like "Whut the hell kind a fruity paint color is that?" or "You plan on usin' that itty bitty roller on a twelve-foot ceilin'? Shit, boy, that ain't hardly gonna paint you a doll house."

"What on earth are you doing here in New York instead of on a ranch in Wyoming," Crowley observed while the hayseed mixed the paint colors Crowley had chosen.

"Yo, Masterpiece Theater, them is some _pimp_ threads," said some kid who looked like he was on drugs as he pointed to Crowley's suit. "And what color you pick out there, Columbo? Grandma's Armpit?"

"The color is Antique Royal," Castiel corrected the kid, holding up the paint swatch.

"Don't speak to him, Castiel, you're only encouraging him."

"Oh."

"'Fashionable' neighborhood, my brimstone arse," Crowley muttered to himself as the redneck yelled to the kid to "Git the hell out a my store."

"Fuck you, you damn ugly-ass redneck bitch." The kid flipped him the bird, then banged out the door.

"That'll be one hunnerd sixty dollars and twenty-five cents," Old Hickory now barked, plunking down five cans of paint on the counter. "And we don't take credit. Cash only."

"Do you happen to have a cousin named Bobby Singer?"

"Whut?"

"Never mind."

After the redneck ripped them off for the last few U.S. dollars they had, they trundled back to the apartment, where Crowley learned there was a difference between wanting your walls to be Antique Royal versus actually making it happen.

After Crowley finally threw his roller down in frustration when a few attempts demonstrated that he was not made for blue-collar work, Castiel shoved his hands in his pockets, and said "Do you think it would be considered cheating to ask a friend for assistance?"

Crowley slowly turned to him, and said quietly "Blimey, Castiel. I could kiss you."

"I would prefer it if you did not," Castiel replied, taking a step back.

"You summoned me here for _what_?" Balthazar asked Castiel incredulously after Castiel called for him. "And after what you did to me?"

"I was high on souls, okay?" Castiel replied testily. "And God brought you back, didn't He?"

"He also told me not to help you."

"Then don't tell Him," Crowley answered.

"At any rate," Balthazar added, "last time I checked, I was an angel, not a house painter."

"Oh, come on! It will take you one second!"

"You've already wasted five minutes of my time."

"So, what's one second more?"

"And what will you do for me in exchange?"

Crowley ran his tongue over his teeth as he took in Balthazar's silk clothing, then said "I know a shop that has Chinese silk pajamas the likes of which you've never seen."

"Where?" Balthazar asked, his eyes sparkling eagerly. Castiel shook his head at the both of them.

"Ah-ah-ah. Paint the walls first, and I'll tell you."

"Very well." Balthazar snapped his fingers, and immediately the walls were perfectly painted Antique Royal.

"Brilliant!" Crowley exclaimed, looking round him.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"The shop."

"I was lying," Crowley smiled. When Balthazar took a step toward him, Crowley said "No, no, that was a joke. Madame Chin's, on the Bowery."

"Thanks," Castiel said to Balthazar, but Balthazar had already vanished, presumably to Madame Chin's. Crowley chuckled.

"Is Madame Chin's a real place?" Castiel asked Crowley with suspicion.

"Unlike you, I keep my promises, so yes, it is a real place." Then Crowley's smile lengthened as he added "What he doesn't know is that it's a brothel, and that he'll have to take the pajamas off the patrons, first, if he wants them."

* * *

><p>Day 4<p>

The main room done (there was still the bathroom and the kitchen to contend with), the task now turned to acquiring furnishings. The trouble is, it required money. Loads of it.

"How about a thrift store," Castiel suggested as Crowley gazed longingly at a pair of leather wing-backed chairs behind a plate-glass window on Fifth Avenue.

"Bite your tongue," Crowley scoffed. "This vessel is used to only the best," he added, holding his arms out and looking down at his fastidiously clad self.

Castiel rolled his eyes impatiently. "What do you plan to do, break in and steal those chairs?"

"No. I plan to call in some favors."

"You're not a demon anymore, remember."

"Some people aren't aware of that, yet."

When Crowley returned to the apartment later that afternoon with a wad of cash, Castiel stood up from the floor (had he been meditating?) and asked "Where did you get that?"

"Never you mind," Crowley replied primly. "Now let's make haste to that furniture store before it closes."

After they took the subway uptown again (Castiel wouldn't let Crowley "waste" money on a cab) and entered the furniture store, the proprietor, responding to Crowley's Savile Row suit and cultured accent, bowed and scraped as he asked Crowley was he was looking for.

"That," Crowley replied, waving a languid hand toward a corner of the store that had been decorated like a study in an old English country house. "To be delivered this evening, if you please." And he handed the proprietor the entire wad of cash.

"I can't believe you spent all that money on some furniture," Castiel grumbled for the fiftieth time that night.

"Not all of it," Crowley replied from one of the leather wing-backed chairs. "I saved a hundred for this." And he held up his glass of single-malt scotch.

"Did it occur to you that sooner or later we'll need sustenance?" Castiel pointed out, kicking his toe against the fender of the hearth.

"Then I suggest you sort that out. It's your turn to contribute to the household, after all."

"I suppose I could always steal someone's credit card," Castiel muttered, gazing at the bottle of scotch.

"Ah-ah, don't even think about it."

"What? Don't tell me _you_ have a problem with stealing credit cards."

"Not at all, I think it's a splendid idea. I meant don't even think about my scotch. Find your own."

* * *

><p>Day 5<p>

"Where have you been?" Crowley demanded the next morning when a disheveled Castiel stumbled into the flat and sunk down on the embroidered Queen Anne settee.

"You said to find my own scotch," Castiel slurred, his eyes at half mast.

"Well? How much did you have?"

"Half."

Crowley declined to ask half of what-a bottle? A bar? A liquor store?-and instead enquired "So I take it the credit card stealing was a success?"

Castiel nodded his head about a dozen times, slouched down in his seat. "Forgot the food though," he shrugged.

"Ah, yes. Perhaps we should find a spot to eat for breakfast. I could use a nice Earl Grey and a bite of toast. So could you, I imagine. I trust you still have the credit card?"

"No," Castiel said flatly.

"What happened to it?"

"Someone stole it off me when I passed out in Central Park."

"Ah. Well, you can always steal another one."

"Know what?" Castiel said then, closing his eyes.

"No, what?"

"Your accent's annoying."

Crowley rolled his eyes, said "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I actually prefer you as God. Now, come along."

"What're you doing," Castiel grumbled as Crowley tugged on the sleeve of his trench coat.

"You mean, what are _we_ doing. And _we_, my friend, are going to find breakfast."

Despite a killing hangover, Castiel still managed to lift someone's wallet in Times Square (a trick he learned from the Winchesters, he explained) and with the cash they took a cab (against Castiel's protests) to Ouest on the Upper West Side. Once they got there, however, Crowley saw, to his surprise, none other than Death himself in one of the booths. Even more surprising, he was not alone: next to him sat what could have been Death's brother or cousin, with similar longish dark hair, large nose, and black garb.

Death wiped his mouth with a napkin, then languidly lifted his hand to summon them over. As Crowley and Castiel slipped into the booth, Death nodded his head at his companion, said "This is Severus, of course. Severus, this is Crowley and Castiel, former demon and angel, respectively."

"Gentlemen," Severus replied in a low voice, making a small bow.

"I was under the impression that you only cared for fast food," Crowley observed as Death sipped his tea.

"Evidently, your impression was incorrect," Death replied. "So," he said, turning to Castiel. "How does your cohabitation experiment do?"

"He spent fifty thousand dollars on furniture," Castiel complained.

"Is that all? I'm surprised you showed such restraint, Crowley," Death replied, delicately cutting into his eggs Benedict.

"It's not a spacious flat," Crowley observed, perusing the menu.

Right then, the waiter came up, and Crowley ordered for both himself and Castiel, since he knew that left to his own devices, Castiel would probably just request a piece of bread and a bottle of wine.

Severus raised his eyebrows primly as Crowley ordered for them, and Crowley frowned, asked "Is there something the matter?"

"Not at all," Severus replied. Crowley noticed with interest he was British-Inverness via Cokeworth, if he wasn't mistaken.

"Well then?"

"It's only that one doesn't see such gallantry nowadays."

"What-" Crowley began, then blinked. "Do you mean to suggest-"

"Ah," Severus replied. "My mistake."

"He's not my type," Castiel said as he shook some salt onto the tablecloth, then balanced the shaker on the grains.

"Yes, we know you prefer them a bit more...blue-collar, shall we say," Death observed.

Castiel knocked the shaker on its side, shoved his hands into his pockets.

"I really must be off," Severus said, slipping gracefully out of the booth and bowing to Death.

"Tomorrow at the usual time, Severus."

"Of course. Gentlemen," he said, bowing to both Crowley and Castiel, then he was off, the hem of his black robes swirling about his footsteps.

"Interesting fellow," Death said, nodding at Severus's retreating back. "He'd attempted to make a deal with me some thirty or so years ago, but I declined to help him. Nevertheless we became quite good friends."

When Crowley and Castiel's food came, Death stood up, and said "Enjoy your meal gentlemen. By the way, it's on me." Then he too was off.

"Eat your food," Crowley admonished Castiel, who was staring down at his laden plate as though he didn't know where to begin.

"I'm not even sure what it is," Castiel replied.

"It's good. Now hurry up, for we have things to do."

"Such as?"

"Well. One cannot have an English study without books, can one? So today, we're going to begin our library."

"For once, I'm in agreement with you."

In SoHo, there was a funny little basement shop run by a madwoman who claimed to be a witch, but the books she sold were actually the real deal. Here could be found grimoires and spell books, some even going back to the eighteenth century, though nothing as select as the books in Crowley's library back in Britain. But these would have to do, for now.

"What we need," Crowley called over to Castiel, "is a book with a spell on how to magically fix plumbing."

"I don't think there's a spell for that," Castiel murmured behind a volume labeled _The Mabinogion: A Witch's Translation_.

"There is, but you'll not find it here," said a voice behind Crowley. He turned around, to see the gentleman they'd met earlier that morning standing before him, Death's companion.

"Ah. So you're a scholar of the magical arts then?" Crowley queried.

"Quite," Severus replied curtly.

"Splendid. Do you happen to know said spell?"

"I may," Severus said.

"You 'may'? Does that mean you won't divulge it until you receive something in return?"

"Perhaps."

"Not the most forthright person, are you."

"Why give away information when it can be bargained for?"

"Excellent," Crowley smiled. "But why do you think we might have something you want?"

"Who better than an ex-deity and the former King of Hell?"

"Ah. Very well. What can we do for you?"

"Tell Death," Severus said severely, "to let me go."

"Pardon?"

"He keeps. Bringing me. Back," Severus enunciated, clenching his fists.

"Why is that?"

"He says he enjoys my company."

"Well, isn't that a good thing? Don't you want to stay alive?"

"Not particularly."

"Hm. Well, have it your way. I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you."

"Now, the spell."

Severus told him, and Crowley nodded, said "Thanks."

"It may not work for you though," Severus warned him, moving away.

"Why not?"

"You're neither a wizard nor a demon. Not anymore." And before Crowley knew it, Severus had vanished into thin air.

"Maybe you should have just asked him to do the spell for us," Castiel observed.

"You could have suggested this while he was still here," Crowley growled in reply.

"I didn't want to intrude."

"Castiel?"

"Yes?"

"Next time you have a viable idea..._intrude_!"

* * *

><p>Day 6<p>

"Crowley?" Castiel called from the bathroom the next morning.

"Yes?" Crowley called back over his newspaper.

"Do we have a plunger?"

Bollocks.

Severus was right: the spell hadn't worked after all. Therefore, they were forced to do things the mortal way, and call a plumber.

"'Sup, Pimp Style," said the kid from the paint store when Crowley opened the door.

"What are you doing here?" Crowley asked.

"Somebody here called for a plumber, right? Well I'm him." The kid held up his toolbox, grinned. He was wearing a Yankees baseball cap sideways on his head, and the waistband of his jeans was near down about to his knees.

"I was certain that drug dealing was your mode of employment," Crowley said as he let the kid in.

"Well I got some dope too if y'all want to toke."

"Naturally," Crowley muttered as he led the kid through the flat.

"Damn son, this crib is _sweet_ as shit. You need another roommate?" the kid smiled. His smile fell though when he got to the bathroom, and looked down into the toilet.

"Aw man," he said, dumping his toolbox onto the floor. "Which one a you dropped this atom bomb? On second thoughts, never mind about the roommate sitch."

After about half an hour, Crowley heard the sound of the toilet flush, and the kid called out triumphantly "I fixed it!"

"Good. Now take a look at the sink," Crowley called back to him. At that moment, Castiel came in with a bag of bagels and a little cardboard cup holder carrying a couple cups of coffee.

"I apologize that it took so long," Castiel said, setting these items on the sideboard. "The bagel store was cash only, which meant-"

"You had to lift another wallet," Crowley finished for him.

"I would not have had to, if you hadn't insisted we take that cab to breakfast yesterday, and to the book stores, and to dinner-"

"I was not about to board another subway train. Besides, did you really imagine were were going to cart around all those books on the subway?"

"We might have to start looking for employment soon," Castiel said, pulling the lid off his coffee and taking a sip. "Ow," he said. "It's hot."

"You're supposed to blow on it, first," Crowley said, extracting his own cup from the cardboard holder. "I thought you were the expert in this human business, not I."

"I suppose there are some things that I've forgotten."

"Such as coffee being hot?"

"No. Such as not being immune to the effects of its temperature."

"Sink's fixed," the kid said, slouching into the parlor with his tool kit in hand. "Hey Columbo, you get me a bagel too?"

After Castiel paid the kid with this morning's left-over cash-the kid haggled over his rate till Castiel just handed him the whole wad in exasperation-Crowley ran his thumb along the edge of Mr. James Edgar Roland's American Express Centurion, then held it up as he said "Do you know what this is, Castiel?"

"A credit card?"

"Indeed. Rather the way a Bentley is a car."

"Is that better than a Chevrolet?"

Crowley rolled his eyes. Then he said "What this is, Castiel, is our ticket to a brand new wardrobe." His eyes flicked over Castiel's stained, weathered trench coat. "Surely you've considered modifying your schtick from time to time?"

Castiel looked down at himself, then back at Crowley.

"It is of no import," he said.

Exasperated, Crowley stood up from his leather chair, pocketed the card.

"Suit yourself. I'm going shopping."

"Alone?"

"You've just expressed your disinterest."

"But I need...I need some new socks," Castiel said.

"_Socks_?"

"Yes. The ones I have on have holes in them."

"Socks," Crowley said, shaking his head as he went to the door and opened it.

"Are we going to Sears?" Castiel asked, following him out the door. "That's where Dean gets his clothing."

"Castiel, I will let you in on a little secret."

"What?"

"Dean has no taste." And Crowley slammed the door shut behind them.

* * *

><p>Day 7<p>

And on the seventh day, ex-God (and his former demon roommate) rested.


End file.
